


There's A Real World Waiting

by Siyah_Kedi



Series: Real World [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siyah_Kedi/pseuds/Siyah_Kedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur takes point as a teenager to get close to a mark they need. It's sort of fun, until everything goes wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's A Real World Waiting

_Maybe something else I'm missing  
Something good and you're the reason  
It's a dream but there's a real world waiting_

_**Jimmy Eat World - Always Be** _

-o0o-

 

"What the actual fuck?" 

Arthur let the profanity slip out before he was even halfway done with the preliminary file their current client had given them on their mark. It specified _Gregorio Felicci is just on the legal side of a pedophile; he enjoys teenagers and 'barely legal' adults - for viewing pleasure alone, of course,_ and a small handwritten note beside it said, " _I would not ask this of you if I suspected anything untoward would happen to any of your team._ "

"The fuck is this, Cobb?" Arthur waved the papers in the extractor's face, his grip on his carefully maintained professional facade slipping. 

"You're the youngest, cher," Mal said, like it was obvious. 

"This is a forger's work," Arthur snapped, not bothering to specify 'wrong Cobb' and wishing he didn't love the pair of them so much. "And, oh, there's our forger!" He gestured wildly at the British man smirking around the back of a chair a few feet away. He'd taken an instant, fierce dislike to the forger, who'd picked up on it immediately and spent much of his time trying to get under Arthur's skin and largely succeeding. 

"Arthur," Dom said, putting on his best 'placate the wild point man now and maybe he won't murder us in our sleep voice.' Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to check the amusement at Cobb's tone; he'd heard it often enough since Eames started working with them to recognise it in nothing more than his name. "Eames will be doing the forging in the dreamshare," Cobb spoke slowly, as if to a child, and Arthur's brief flash of amusement faded. "He's - well, there's absolutely no way he's going to pass for a seventeen/eighteen year old in real life." Cobb gestured vaguely to Eames' broad shoulders, three-day-old scruff and rounded muscles. He wasn't that much older than Arthur - personal details on the man were notoriously hard to track down, however, and Arthur had only his word that he was, actually, twenty six to Arthur's twenty four (and a half, he added mulishly to himself.) But where Eames was all rippling muscle and raw power, Arthur remained resolutely stick-thin no matter how much he worked out. He'd toned up considerably since meeting Eames, and had fallen into a regular routine of running and lifting weights, but unless he resorted to an all-protein diet or steroids, there was just no way he'd compare with the fucking _hulk_ he was working with. 

Adding that to the fact that his hair was rather long, and when not gelled back had a tendency to flop into his face and soften his features, his big brown eyes, and _dimples_ , honest to god dimples when he smiled - 

Yes, Arthur could pass for fifteen or sixteen if he had to. It was not one of his prouder accomplishments. 

"Oh, my god," Arthur said, dropping his head into his hands. "Fine," he capitulated. There was no way this job was going down if he didn't get close to the mark, and the only way he was getting close to the mark was dressing up like a teenager.

"This ought to be interesting," Eames commented to no one. 

-o0o-

The first thing he did after reading through the rest of the information - it was surprisingly detailed for non-professional work, and Arthur was impressed - was go shopping. He absolutely refused to allow anyone to come with him, even when Mal begged prettily in French. 

"If I'm doing this, I need to get into character, right?" Arthur said, not snapping because it was Mal and he adored Mal beyond reason. Anyone else was fair game, however, and when Eames opened his mouth to add commentary, Arthur shut him down with a glare. "My job," he said archly. "My 'forge', my way. Leave me alone!" 

He got up and headed for the door, already cataloguing what he'd need to do and buy, and heard Dom in the background muttering to Mal, "Well, he's got the sulky part of 'sulky teen' down already."

"I heard that!" Arthur shouted, and slammed the door behind him just for pure satisfaction. Honestly, now that he wasn't a teenager anymore, it might be fun to play one for a job. Especially if it meant he could get away with acting like a snot and not have his professionalism called into question. He was trying, he _was_ , but this much repression didn't come naturally to him, and really. How was _anyone_ meant to work with Eames without wanting to tear his head off on a near-hourly basis?

He took himself to the nearest department store at the mall, and congratulated himself on his choice because it also gave him an opportunity to study the teens he was meant to be emulating. He looked at what they wore, how they walked, and the way they spoke to each other, hands all over the place in that gangly sort of awkwardness that only an emotionally unstable proto-human could manage. 

He didn't know how long he'd be at this, so he bought several pairs of boxer shorts in the most outrageous designs - Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles, smiley faces, and beer logos. He bought regular white socks because everything he'd brought with him was only suitable for dress slacks and loafers, and he got a pair of sneakers and a pair of tan work boots, and then found himself in the actual clothing aisles and was completely lost. 

Once again, he found himself turning to the other teens doing their shopping, discreetly mimicking their choices. That was how he ended up with two pairs of something called 'skinny jeans' on the tag, and one pair of outrageously baggy trousers. He picked up wife-beaters, tee-shirts, two long sleeved tee shirts, and a hoodie, because it was fairly cold out, and then to complete the ensemble, he snagged a ball cap and rainbow-coloured belt, and a book bag. He'd been meaning to get one for personal use, when he wanted to go hiking, and figured that nothing screamed 'student' so loudly as a backpack. 

He awkwardly brought everything to the counter, and the girl smiled at him shyly. "Guess you're a part-time dad, too," she guessed as she worked. 

Arthur leapt on it. "The divorce finally went through," he said in low tones, as if admitting some sordid secret. 

"Aw, that's too bad. How long were you together?" 

Arthur did some quick mental math, decided he was thirty two, and said, "Fifteen years. Well, only ten of them were _together,_ you know. She had some - she called it a midlife crisis, even though she's barely thirty, but we were high school sweethearts, and things happened a little quickly. We were young, then." 

The cashier clucked over him, and handed her phone number to him with the receipt. "For lonely nights," she offered. "I know how they can be." 

He accepted graciously, stunned, and then smirked the whole way back to the apartment they were all sharing for the duration of the job. _And Eames says I have no imagination._

He toed his shoes off when he got in the door, took his purchases to his room, and tried to settle on what to wear. He needed to start breaking the clothes in, even if he wouldn't touch off with the mark for another couple of weeks. It wouldn't do to show up in obviously stiff and new clothes with the tags still on them. 

Settling on a wife-beater - Mal was particularly susceptible to the cold, coming from Perpignan on the mediterranean coast of France as she did - because the apartment was almost stiflingly hot, and the skinny jeans and his sneakers, he brought everything into the bathroom with his towel and shampoo. "Mal?" he called, wanting to show off the clothes to someone before they actually went on his body. 

To his utter dismay, it was Eames who answered. "They went out, darling," he called back. "Had to get away from us kids, you know," he added, and Arthur rolled his eyes before shutting - and locking - the bathroom door. He tore all the tags off everything, stripped off his suit, and took a deep breath. _I'm seventeen, going on eighteen,_ he told himself. _As a teenaged boy, I want to eat constantly, fuck anything that'll hold still long enough, and I think I'm going to live forever. I can do this._

He showered quickly, only long enough to wash the gel out of his hair, and borrowed Mal's hair dryer to fluff it out when he was done. It curled riotously at the ends, but it looked - well, it looked _cute_ , and it definitely softened his face, and made his eyes look bigger, and he sort of felt like a pedophile looking at himself. It was only going to get worse when he actually put the clothes on. 

It was supremely disconcerting to wear boxers; he'd given them up when he graduated high school and started wearing suits because he liked his pants tailored, and not wearing anything at all both eliminated unsightly lines in his trousers and gave him a secret thrill. He tugged them up a little higher than he was comfortable with in the first place, because his pants were going to be hanging down a little bit - he'd seen it on damn near everybody under the age of twenty five in the men's department - and he didn't want to show anything off. 

When he got the jeans on over them, the waistband and a little bit of the logo showing over the tops of the jeans, he discovered he actually liked the feeling of the jeans casing his legs so tightly. And fortunately, the lines of the boxers didn't actually show through the denim. Socks, shirt. He needed his belt, and possibly his shoes, because it was weird walking around in his socks - and he needed to get them broken in as soon as possible, because he absolutely despised the feeling of brand-new shoes. He exited the bathroom still trying to make a decision, because although he had valid reasons for wearing the shoes, he also didn't know if it was in or out of character to wear them around the houes. As an actual teenager, he'd worn his shoes only as long as necessary, shucking them into his closet the minute he got home. 

_What a difference a few years makes,_ he thought, and started rummaging around in the fridge for something to snack on. Shopping was always a draining experience, and besides, it was _in character._ He was going to try it out on his roommates for a few days before taking it out into the world. He also needed to get Eames to make him up another ID saying that he's eighteen, so he could test his ... forge by trying to buy cigarettes at his favourite store and seeing if they carded him. He didn't always smoke, but figured it might help with the 'bad-ass teenager' image he was trying to project. 

"Um, excuse me?" He almost didn't recognise Eames' voice at first; he'd never heard the man sound anything but obnoxious or professional. That distant, polite tone seemed completely out of tune with the man. "Who are you?"

He stood up out of the fridge, saw one of Eames' arms behind his back - _he's got a gun, of course he does_ \- and put his hands up in the 'I'm unarmed, don't shoot' expression of innocence. 

Making his voice lower, more from his chest, he raised one eyebrow and said, "Yes?"

"Who are - _Arthur?_ "

He couldn't help the genuine grin that spread over his face at the sheer disbelief in Eames' voice. "Who else?" 

"Jesus Christ on crutches," Eames muttered, and Arthur kicked the fridge closed while Eames stepped forward, staring at him like he'd never seen him before. "Turn around," he ordered, and Arthur obligingly showed off his disguise. 

"Convincing, huh?" 

"Christ on crutches," Eames said again, but one corner of his mouth turned up in half a grin. "I didn't even recognise you." He came closer, and Arthur tensed before forcing himself to relax. 

"I'll need you to throw together a new ID for me," Arthur said, before he forgot. "Age eighteen, because I want them to card me, but I still want the cigarettes." 

Eames looked surprised. "You smoke?" 

Arthur decided against divulging his 'stress-smoker' secret, and threw off a cocky smirk. It came as naturally to him as behaving like a model citizen didn't, and he thought he was going to have fun with this job after all. "Now I do," he said. "Name Graham Cole. Can you do it?" 

Eames gave him a sharp look. "Please," he scoffed. "Can I make you an ID - what kind of a question is that?" 

"An honest one," Arthur sniped back, grinning. His stomach growled and reminded him of it's emptiness, so he pulled out the bread and started making himself a sandwhich. He had a sudden craving for soda, despite having sworn off it when he started drinking coffee in order to keep his wits about him on the job. "Hmm," he said, and pulled back to stare at the half-completed sandwhich. 

"What now?" 

"I need to go shopping again," he said. "Dressing like this has brought out all sort of teenaged reminiscences, and it'll help me stay in character."

"I was just about to head out to the corner store," Eames said, cocking his hip against the fridge. "What do you need?" 

"Cigarettes," Arthur said instantly, just to see the tiny frown lines appear on Eames' face. "Soda. Nothing diet," he specified. "That stuff tastes like ass." 

"Like _what?_ "

He covered his snicker behind his hand. "God, Eames, your face is a study. Like _ass_. Disgusting. Vile? Revolting? Are any of these things ringing a bell?" 

"Certainly," Eames said, sounding bemused. His eyes trailed down Arthur's lean body again, making the point man feel suddenly self-conscious. "Christ on crutches," he muttered for a third time, and then spun on his heel and practically fled the apartment. Arthur ate the sandwhich with milk, because it was the only thing besides water and beer available to drink until Eames got back and he didn't want the bread to get stale or stiff. He ordered a pizza, and then found a text message waiting from Eames. 

_darlng, u never said. what type fags? what type soda?_

Arthur texted back with the first things that came to mind, and then flopped down on the couch. It was ... surprisingly, _disturbingly_ easy to fall back into the the habits that he'd spent so long training himself out of. Worth it, if it meant an easy job; there were lengths he was willing to go to make sure the job went smoothly, and dressing and acting like a teenager again for a few weeks was _annoying_ at best, but certainly not even close to his limits. He propped his feet up on the table, snatched them down again as he expected his aunt to come barreling around the corner and yell at him, and then put them back up as he remembered that one, he wasn't _actually_ a teenager subject to other people's rules, he was a grown man in his own space - he'd actually bought the table, in fact, so it was his property - and two, his aunt had been dead for five years. If she came barreling around the corner, he had bigger things to worry about than his feet up on the coffee table. 

Approximately five minutes later, he was sliding the hoodie on and toeing into the shoes he'd bought and heading out to pick up the pizza - figuring that while the extra cost of delivery was no problem, he didn't want to be handing the address out to anybody. Eames still hadn't returned from his 'just down to the corner store' trip, and Arthur spared a brief thought to wonder where he was before he just got in his rented car, reminded himself that they were both adults, no matter how he was pretending - and didn't dressing up like this and playing make-believe make him feel even _younger_ \- and that Eames could take care of himself. 

He and Eames returned at the same time, Arthur trying to balance the pizzas on one hand while he fumbled at the lock because Eames' hands were completely full of bags.

Eames threw a carton of cigarettes at him - Marlboro Smooths, his absolute favourite; they were smooth on his throat, and they smelled and tasted like Junior Mints - and unpacked several two-litre bottles of Dr. Pepper, as well as a 20-oz that was just starting to condensate in the warmth of the apartment. 

"You're a life saver," Arthur said, and shocked himself with how true it felt. "Though I didn't need a whole carton, I'm going to buy more in a couple days to test out my ID." 

"So you'll have an extra pack lying around, it won't hurt," Eames said, drawing out the rest of his purchases. "We'll need a picture of you, darling, and the sooner the better." 

Arthur wrinkled his nose, but pulled off his hoodie and ran his fingers through his hair, knowing instinctively that it was now probably fuzzy and sticking out. Eames was watching him with hooded eyes, and Arthur lifted an eyebrow. "Something on my face?" 

Eames jerked like he'd been shocked. "No," he said, and then added, "You look delectable with your hair like that. I wish I could put my fingers on it."

Both eyebrows went up. "Mr. Eames, I'm not sure whether to be flattered that you find me attractive, or worried that you find me attractive. I'm posing as a barely-legal teenager, remember?" 

"Ah, but I'll always remember that you're not so much younger than me," Eames said, his voice lowering in a way that might have been seductive if it weren't - well, _Eames._

_Bad form to get involved with coworkers,_ Arthur reminded himself. _Even if they are looking at you like they want to kiss you stupid._

"By the way, I am seriously offended on your behalf at the moment," Eames added in a total non-sequitur. Baffled, Arthur shot him a questioning look.

"Huh?"

Eames twitched. "God, I hate that word." 

"Huh?" Arthur asked again, just to see him flinch. "Huh, huh, huh?"

"Quit it, you! Anyway, yes. Offended. You don't even look eighteen, you look about fifteen, and he's got to be pushing fourty. If he's getting his rocks off on kids like you, I am personally offended." 

Arthur couldn't help the grin, he really couldn't. Maybe after this job was done and didn't count on him being a totally open, innocent teenager, he'd work on his facial expressions and rigid control. And also, he was enjoying the new sort of camaraderie with Eames. The forger seemed to be settling into treating him like... kind of like a brother, Arthur thought, or a cousin. Someone to be teased good-naturedly, emphasis on the _good._ It was already a pleasant change from the constant snarking back and forth. 

Oh, and Mal was going to _flip_ when she saw him. Arthur felt positively gleeful thinking about it.

-o0o-

Eames produced a camera from somewhere, and seemed intent on photographically cataloguing every minute of Arthur's 'forge'. He was certainly aggressive about taking pictures of Arthur eating his pizza, propping his feet up on the table again, flipping channels, drinking his soda, smoking his cigarettes. Every time he turned around - or even blinked - Eames was taking pictures. 

"I still need one of you against the wall," Eames said, and Arthur couldn't help it. He _really couldn't._ But as a teenager, it's exactly what he would have done, and so as a pretend-teen he did it again. He plastered himself against a clear white wall, pressed his hands against it, and cocked one leg up and out. Naturally, Eames took a picture of it, but he was laughing so hard he had to make Arthur do it again because the first picture was blurry. Funning aside, he turned around, straightened his hair again - knowing it was a lost cause, there was a _reason_ he gelled his hair - and put on his best 'serious at the DMV' face for Eames to actually take a picture of him for the ID. 

At some point, they found themselves on the couch with beers, the pizza box open in front of them to snack on during the movie. That's when Eames glanced over at him and got it into his head to take Arthur's beer.

"You're not old enough for this," he said, holding it away. Arthur scowled at him and reached for it, only to have Eames move it higher out of his reach. 

"Yes I am, you asshole, give it back." 

Somehow, Arthur ended up stretched across Eames' lap, left hand on the cushion to support his weight while his right reached for his drink. That was when Mal and Cobb came back. 

" _Mister Eames!_ " Mal screeched, scandalised. Arthur twisted so fast his hand slipped off and he faceplanted directly into the couch. Face-down, right across Eames' lap. 

"Oh- _ho_ ," Eames said, delighted with this turn of events, and leaned his weight forward, his forearms resting - seemingly lightly, but Arthur could feel the pressure - on Arthur's thighs and lower back, pinning him there. "Welcome back, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb," Eames said cheerfully. 

Arthur heard the quiet _click_ of a hammer being pulled back, and figured that Cobb was about ten seconds from shooting either him or Eames. "Eames, tell me why you brought some _rent-boy_ back to our apartment," Cobb said, voice all coiled danger. Arthur wriggled, trying to free himself.

"I'm not a rent-boy," he shouted, thinking, _God, Cobb's gonna kill me because he doesn't recognise me like this._ "It's me, Arthur, tell him to let me up!" 

"Arthur?" Mal sounded distinctly surprised. 

Eames' weight shifted more onto Arthur as he leaned over. "Stop wiggling, Arthur, or else," he breathed, and Arthur froze as he realised exactly what he meant. 

"Let me up," Arthur whispered back, fairly sure they weren't fooling anyone. "Or I'll elbow you in the balls." 

Eames moved so fast Arthur rolled onto the floor. He put his hands up, saw Cobb aiming the gun at him - much to Eames' evident amusement - and then pulled his hair back off his face, the way it normally was when he was working. Mal immediately dissolved into laughter, and Cobb, shame-faced, eased the hammer back up and tucked the gun away. 

"Jesus, Arthur," he said, bemused. "I wasn't expecting..." He gestured vaguely to Arthur's clothes and hair. 

"You said dress like a teenager, and act like a teenager," Arthur said, picking himself up and rescuing his beer. "So I am." 

"Except teenagers don't drink beer," Eames put in helpfully. "That's why I was trying to stop you."

Mal recovered, wiping tears away and not seeming to mind that she'd smudged her makeup. "Oh, Mr. Eames, teenagers _do_ drink beer. It's part of the thrill of being a teenager. Besides, as a future mother, I would definitely be okay with my children drinking alcohol, provided that they did it safely and where I could keep an eye on them." Her smile was almost feral. "Such as in the house, under adult supervision." 

"I would like to remind you that I am not, in fact, a teenager any more," Arthur put in. "If I wanted to, I could take my ID down to the nearest bar and they would actually serve me alcohol in a public place." 

"Not dressed like that, darling," Eames said, and Arthur scowled. 

Cobb kept sending him disbelieving looks, like he couldn't quite reconcile the visibly-underage man with his put-together point man. All in all, Arthur counted the whole thing as a success - or would, if he could forget the feel of Eames' solid thighs beneath his stomach, or the not-unpleasant weight of his arms pinning Arthur down. But that aside, if _Cobb_ didn't recognise him - Cobb, who he'd been working with for two years, ever since he got out of the navy - then his disguise was perfect. Even if he should pass their mark on the street, there was absolutely no chance of him getting made. The only things left to do were actually complete the job. 

He gathered information, hacking databases and rifling through their mark's trash. It wasn't the most glamourous of duties, but it did tell him that Felicci frequented a gay bar a couple of blocks from his house. 

Cobb produced a new wallet with a chain and some strange pictogram of a little man with what looked like an axe for him, and two days later, Arthur moved all of his important things - a picture of Mal and Dom, his credit cards, all of his cash - into the new wallet, and fastened it to his jeans so that when the wallet part of it was tucked into his pocket, the chain hung down. He also started parting his hair at the side so that it fell over one eye. The only thing missing was his new ID, and Eames had been working tirelessly on it since getting the pictures printed out at a local shop. On the third day, the ID was ready and Arthur slid it home in the little plastic window in the wallet. He double checked his outfit - skinny jeans, skate-sneakers, hoodie, wallet - realised he looked like he was part of the 'emo' subcrowd, and went down to the corner store to test out his ID. 

It went beautifully; they definitely carded him, and nodded and handed it and his cigarettes over. That night, Arthur went to the bar. 

The music was too loud, and not quite what he enjoyed, but it was easy to move to and he found himself getting into the ambience of the place. More than a few young men checked him out, and he was amused by the two black X's on his hands, proclaiming him too young to drink alcohol. He flirted harmlessly until he saw Gregorio slip in through the door. He gave it twenty minutes, then sidled over to his table. 

"You come here often?" he asked, then kicked himself. What a stupid pick-up-at-a-bar thing to say, he thought, and then had to smile because Gregorio was looking him over like a piece of meat. 

"Sometimes." His voice was low, and Arthur had to lean in to hear him over the pounding bass. "I'm Greg." He put his hand out, and Arthur shook it, making sure the large X was visible.

"Graham," he said, and flinched internally. He hadn't gone by Graham in years, and he wasn't entirely sure what had prompted him to tell Eames to put that on his ID. Cobb hadn't been too happy about it, either, but by the time he found out the ID was made and it was too late to choose another name.

"Grey?"

Arthur leaned closer. "Graham," he enunciated. "This is a nice place." 

Greg smiled, and if there was something wolfish about, Arthur pretended not to notice. "It is," he agreed smoothly. "Do _you_ come here often?"

"No," Arthur said. "I just moved here. Heard at school it was the place to be on Fridays and Saturdays." 

"Wednesdays, too. They do a wonderful drag show." 

Arthur made small talk about the drag show, and the drinks they served, and the boy currently up on the stage dancing, and then around eleven he claimed curfew and left with Greg's number. 

_Gotcha,_ he thought, and smiled the whole way back to the apartment. 

-o0o-

Three not-quite-date meetups at the bar later, Arthur convinced Greg to take him home. He texted Mal to make sure they'd be waiting outside his house, covered it up with a smooth lie to the mark about telling his parents he was staying overnight with a boy from school, and they left the bar together. 

He let Greg make him a drink, slipped the sedative into Greg's, and watched as he passed out. He unlocked the door for Mal and the others, took a sip of his drink, and then immediately realised he'd underestimated Greg when the room spun around him. 

Eames was the first one in the door. "Arthur, are you alright?" 

"What?"

"You're swaying." 

Arthur propped himself up against the wall and took a deep breath. "I think there's more to this guy than we thought. You guys can handle it without me, right? I don't know what he gave me, and there's no telling if it'll interact with the hypnotisin." 

"We'll be fine," Cobb assured him, quickly setting up the PASIV. "Drink lots of water, and be careful." 

Ten minutes after they'd gone down with the mark, Arthur felt his body burning. He sat against the wall and tried to will himself back into submission. Whatever drug Felicci had given him was making him hot, though, and horny as hell. _Some kind of date-rape drug, no doubt,_ he thought, and hated himself for getting into this position. He _hated_ staying topside while the others went and did the actual work; waiting patiently was not one of his stronger suits. Added to the fact that his clothing was dragging over his skin in a way that seemed designed to make him want to take it off, and he'd have fucked a hole in the wall if there was one, and Arthur was patently miserable. 

He just wasn't comfortable jerking off in the mark's house, while the others were working, and every breath was a torment because of it. He dragged off his hoodie, unable to stop the horrible whimpers as the fabric slid against his skin, and then pulled his shirt off. His hair was plastered to his face with sweat, and he was shaking with the need to come. The motion only made it worse, and he palmed himself through his pants, groaning. 

That was when everything went to hell in a hand-basket. 

Somehow, Felicci threw off both the sedative Arthur had given him and the hypnotisin from the PASIV, and left the others asleep in a dream that no longer contained the mark. Arthur didn't even realise it until the man was standing over him, nearly naked and leering. 

"Thought there was something a little off about you," he said, and hauled Arthur up by the wrists. It was delicious, and Arthur was so far gone on the drug that he couldn't even muster up the wits to know that he was in a bad situation. Felicci's hand on him through his pants nearly made him come right then and there, and he squirmed closer, slotting one leg between Felicci's and resting his ass on Felicci's thigh. 

"Want me to fuck you?" Felicci asked, and Arthur moaned. 

"Oh, god, please," he begged. Felicci dragged a broken whine out of him by pushing his hips against Arthur's rhythmically, but all it did was inflame the false desire. He needed - something, needed - _more._ "Clothes," Arthur whimpered, hating himself. Like a far away shout, he knew in the back of his mind that this wasn't like him, that this wasn't normal, but he _wanted,_ oh how he wanted. He couldn't think beyond the irrational _need_ that suffused every inch of his body. Felicci kept one hand around Arthur's wrists, holding them immobile above his head while Arthur rocked into his hips. With his other hand, he was unfastening Arthur's belt, reaching into his ridiculously tight pants. 

Distantly, he heard the tiny _zhoop_ and part of his mind catalogued the noise, told him, 'You recognise that noise. It's a dart gun. It's _your_ dart gun.' As with everything else, it was lost under a haze of lust before it could make sense to the rest of him. 

Felicci stiffened up against him, however, and then collapsed. Arthur nearly followed him to the floor, but then someone - Eames, he realised, and then swore because _Fuck, Eames was seeing him like this, he was never going to live it down_ \- was holding him up, nearly carrying him. He sobbed and writhed against the powerful body, half out of his mind with want. 

"We're not doing this job," Eames muttered, lifting Arthur into his arms. "We found evidence - shit, I'll tell you later. Arthur, stop wiggling," he grunted, and then Arthur put his arms around Eames' neck and pressed his lips to the pulse he could see pounding beneath the skin there.

"Fuck me and I'll stop," Arthur whispered, unable to stop fidgeting because it pressed his unbearably hard cock against the inseam of his pants - the only contact he could get with Eames holding him bridal-style. 

"You're high and completely out of your mind," Eames said, and Arthur realised there was a car involved somehow - Eames dropped his legs to the ground while he unlocked it and opened the door, and then manhandled him into the back seat. "Put your life-belt on, there's a love. Ask me again when you're sober and I'll consider it." 

Arthur put his seat belt on obediently, then slid his boxers down a little ways, moaning as he got his fingers around himself. Eames glanced back at him and choked. 

"Why when I'm sober," Arthur asked, the words more than half a moan. "I'm really good," he promised. "I give great head, you'll really enjoy it, I promise." His hand wasn't what he needed, and he shoved his pants down further to get his other hand beneath him, twisting two fingers up inside his body. He cried out brokenly because it _wasn't enough_ , and it was just making everything _worse._ "Please, please fuck me," he whispered. "I need it so bad, I need _you._ "

He met Eames' eyes in the rearview mirror, and then Eames twisted slightly to actually look at him. They swerved when Eames realised what he was doing with his other hand. "Fucking hell, Arthur, ask me when you're sober!" 

"I can't," Arthur said. "I'm going to _die_ ," he said, honestly afraid for a moment. 

Eames was panting, fingers white around the steering wheel. "Fuck," he said. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ I'm sure you're very good, Arthur," and later Arthur would wonder how he managed to say that with a straight face. "I'm more than sure I'd enjoy it. What I wouldn't enjoy would be waking up tomorrow to you blowing my head off because I took advantage of you while you were high." 

"I wouldn't," Arthur negated, emphasising his point by shaking his head. "I wouldn't, I promise, the only thing I want to blow is your dick, there doesn't even have to be a gun involved. It's not advantage, I hate you so much because you're so goddamn good looking and you're always teasing me, and I just want to fuck you all the time, but I can't because you're a prick. Please fuck me, then we're both happy!" 

It never took him this long to get off, and he wriggled slightly to add another finger to his ass, curling them up awkwardly to reach his prostate. He practically screamed as he reached it, and he finally exploded, spilling come all over the back of the seat and his chest. It took the roaring inferno his body had become down to a heated simmer, but his thoughts were clearer. That was when he realised Eames had pulled over to the side of the road, bent over the steering wheel.

"Eames," he said, alarmed. "Oh god, you didn't - you're not having a heart attack, are you?" He unbuckled his seat belt and started to climb into the front to check on the forger, when the other man put up a hand to keep him from moving.

"I'm fine," he breathed. "I just can't - I can't drive while you're having a goddamned orgasm in the back of the car, okay?" 

"Come back here with me, we can both have orgasms," Arthur offered. Eames glared at him, but when Arthur looked down he realised that Eames was hard in his pants. "Please," he said, softly. 

"Ask me," Eames said, enunciating clearly, "when you're _sober._ "

"Fuck!" Arthur felt honest-to-god tears welling in his eyes. "You'll say no, goddamnit. You'll turn me down and tease me for the rest of my life, and that's why I haven't fucking asked you before!" He threw himself back into his seat and did up the seatbelt again. He drew his legs up to his chest and buried his face in his knees. "Fine," he said to his thighs. "Just drive." 

"Arthur," Eames started, but his voice was tinged with pity and Arthur cut him off.

"Just fucking take me home, then! You fucking -" And he was starting to get hard again, fuck, this was unreal. When they pulled back up to the apartment, Arthur managed to get out of the car under his own power, refusing Eames' help even when he stumbled over the couple of steps leading up to the door. He leaned against the wall and stared at anything but Eames, and waited for the other man to unlock the door. 

"I have to go get Mal and Dom," Eames said, and then took Arthur by the shoulder and steered him into his bedroom. 

"Don't fucking touch me," Arthur snapped, but it was breathy and _oh god, Eames was touching him_. 

"I'm really," Eames said. "I'm so sorry about this, Arthur, but." And then he was moving, and Arthur found himself lying flat on his back, Eames leaning over him, and for a brief, glorious moment he thought maybe Eames was giving in, was going to fuck him after all, until the forger was pulling away and Arthur couldn't move his arms.

He looked up, and realised Eames had taken one of his own ties and tied his hands to the headboard. Half of him could only think about how fucking _hot_ it would be for Eames to come back to bed and fuck him while he was helpless like this, but the rest of him was _furious_ , especially when Eames paused in the doorway, looking apologetic. 

"I'm very sorry about this, Arthur, but in your state of mind right now I can't feel safe about leaving you here. I don't want to come back to find you've run away and are being raped and killed in some alleyway somewhere. I'll be back in a few minutes; we'll bring your car back from the bar, too." 

He pulled the door closed, and Arthur lay in stunned silence until he heard the front door shut. He tugged at the tie, but the knot was tight and he could barely slide it up and down the frame, much less free his hands. He screamed until his voice was raw, and then kept going because he was still _hard,_ still aching with need and want and fire, and he couldn't even _touch_ himself. 

He managed to awkwardly roll himself over so that he could at least press against the mattress, and it took forever, but finally he was coming again, the intensity of his second climax more to do with how worked up he was than the quality of the sensations. He came a third time and passed out, not even caring enough to roll again so that his arms were untwisted. 

-o0o-

The first thing he heard were voices. For a split second he wondered if he'd lost his mind, or if this was a residual effect of the drugs. Then he recognised Mal's furious voice, whispering loudly enough that he could make out the words.

"I can't believe you, Eames, how could you do this to him?" 

"I was genuinely afraid he'd take off," Eames said, defensively. 

"How do you not realise that the door lock was engaged?" Mal hissed, and Arthur realised they were jiggling the doorknob, probably trying to pick the lock so they could get in and make sure Arthur was still there. He felt sick, and filthy, and his throat felt like there were glass shards embedded in it. Breathing hurt. 

Then the night before crashed back on him in waves, and he added disfiguring embarrassment to his list of grievances. _God,_ he'd admitted his attraction to Eames, had begged him, had propositioned him repeatedly, and been turned down.

_Not technically,_ a voice in the back of his head told him. Arthur snorted at it, thinking, _Right, he said, "ask me when you're sober," like I'm really going to admit that last night wasn't entirely the result of the drugs. And like I'm going to touch him again after he left me here tied up._

The door swung open, a light from the hallway flooding in. Arthur made a pained noise and curled away from it as best he could with his arms still locked above his head and his jeans a mess. 

"Merde, Eames, could you have tied him any tighter?" Then Mal was at his side, crooning softly in French as she tugged on the tie. "Arthur, cher, talk to me. Are you alright?" 

Arthur tried to talk, but he couldn't manage more than a broken whisper, and that felt like hot coals were being shoved down his throat. _Right,_ he reminded himeslf. _Screamed my voice raw._ Pins and needles burst into his hands as she freed him from the silken confines of his own tie, and the circulation returned to normal, until he couldn't feel anything from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. His hands just lay at his side like dead things, and he studied the purple and green bruises on his wrists where he'd struggled so hard. 

Mal drew him into a hug, sending Eames a fierce look. "Get out of here, Eames. We'll tell you when you're welcome back." Eames vanished from the doorway, from the apartment entirely, Arthur realised when he heard the front door slam. Mal rocked him back and forth, holding him against her chest, and he felt like a little kid again, especially when he started crying. The worst of it was, he couldn't even apologise for the tears, or tell her why he was crying in the first place. It certainly didn't project the cool, put-together point-man image he was trying to cultivate, and then he realised it was _Mal_ and it didn't matter. She and her then-boyfriend Dom had taken him out of the navy and put him back together. They'd already seen him at his worst, and this was nothing compared to the train wreck he'd been then. 

Eventually she managed to get him to stand, easing him into the shower fully clothed. He tried to feel embarrassed, but she was just so... motherly about it. Since he couldn't talk, he smiled weakly at her instead, and she waited until he could flex his fingers before she left him, letting him get the rest of his soiled clothes off alone so he could wash. He felt filthy, used, abused, and embarrassed. The water soothed his throat, but not enough that he could form actual words and for a moment he wondered if he'd done permanent damage to himself. At least his hands were still functional, he told himself. And he never had to see Eames again, could get a white-board to talk to the others and request that he never work with Eames ever again. 

Sometime while he was in the shower, he noticed as he climbed out, Mal had returned and delivered a huge, fluffy white towel, and his pants and a shirt. He gave a genuine smile, and wondered how he was going to make anything of himself if he couldn't talk. He shrugged it off, then, because there was nothing he could do about it yet - they'd be lying low, he needed to debrief them, and none of them - except perhaps Eames - was going anywhere for a while. He dressed awkwardly, leaving his shirt untucked, and rolled the sleeves up automatically before remembering the bruises on his wrists. 

It was too hot to keep them down, however, and he figured Mal already knew and Dom probably heard about it from Mal. He exited the bathroom only to run clean into Eames.

He couldn't say anything, his throat was still burning, but he could and did narrow his eyes and give the forger his best death-glare. As in, _You fucking asshole, I hope you die. Let me help you with that, actually._ He briefly mourned the fact that Mal hadn't returned his gun to him with his clothes.

Eames took him in at a glance, lingering on his wrists, and then his face crumpled up. "Jesus, Arthur, I'm so sorry about last night." 

Arthur side-stepped him and went around, heading for the kitchen. He could smell breakfast cooking, and figured that'd be the most likely place to find Mal and Dom. 

"Are you just... not going to speak to me, now?" Eames asked plaintively, and Arthur paused and glanced back at him. He looked genuinely remourseful, but Arthur decided to let him stew. He gave him a sardonic look, and then continued on his way. Behind him, Eames sighed gustily. 

"Hey, good morning," Dom said, not-quite-brightly. He glanced at Arthur's wrists, but forebore to comment. "How's your throat?"

Arthur touched two fingers to it, and shook his head. There was a notebook on the table, one of his own, and he tugged it towards him. _Hurts like hell,_ he wrote, and showed it to Dom. _Need a white board or something,_ he added, then, _Tell me what happened last night._

"It was a fuck-up from the beginning," Dom sighed. "First we come in and he's already drugged you up," and Arthur wrote _was my own fault, stupid_ , but Dom shook his head. "We took him under, and his mind..." He shuddered, a look of fierce disgust on his face. 

"It was a cesspit," Mal offered. "Apparently he makes a habit of taking his boys - the ones he 'just looks at,'" and her tone was distinctly sarcastic. "He takes them and he drugs them and r-rapes them, and then he kills them." Mal had tears in her eyes, and Dom leaned over and took her hand in his.

"If you'd actually been one of his - the things we saw - " Dom cut himself off, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "I don't know where it went wrong after that," Dom continued, getting himself under control. "One of his projections distracted us, and he must have somehow kicked himself out of the dream. Eames figured it out first, told us you were probably in trouble, and came after you." 

Arthur nodded; he remembered _that_ part very well. Actually, the whole night was distressingly clear. He could have gone his whole life without remembering how he'd let the mark touch him, how he'd begged Eames to - 

He viciously slammed a door on that thought before it could finish and turned his attention back to Cobb. 

"We came up and took him back down, got the information we were hired to find, and also the location of the - the bodies, and the pictures he took, and then we spent most of the night making sure he was locked in his bathroom while we got enough evidence together to call the police. They'll be taking care of him now; I heard it on the news this morning."

"They said it was the work of an anonymous tip," Mal said, and she sounded smug. 

_You guys did good work,_ Arthur wrote, and then realised Eames was standing behind him. He jerked so far he nearly ended up in Cobb's lap, glaring at the forger again. He could feel the force of Mal's displeasure radiating from her without even turning around to look at her.

"Eames," she said sternly, and Arthur clamped down on the hysterical thought that maybe she was practicing to be a mom. 

"Why are you writing - you're not - fuck, Arthur, what's wrong with you?" Eames asked, ignoring them both as he glanced down over Arthur's notebook. 

Arthur didn't take his eyes off Eames as he pulled the notebook back towards him and wrote _FUCK OFF_ in large letters. It wasn't quite straight, but it got the message across.

"Arthur, cher, why don't you write your debrief in the living room?" Mal was firm, and Arthur knew a command when he heard one. He took the plate she offered him, wondering how he was going to choke it down when even breathing hurt, and brought it and his notebook into the living room, wondering how much to tell them. In the end, he left off only how _much_ he'd begged Eames, and his exact words, smoothing it over with _While I was high, I tried to get Eames to sleep with me. He refused._ He wrote that now he was clear of the drugs, he understood Eames' decision to tie him down, but added that if Eames had just _explained_ what he was doing, he wouldn't have minded so much, knowing it was for a good cause and that he was out of his mind at the time. Instead, Eames had just done it and left, with barely a word of explanation, and Arthur had yelled himself into a bad case of laryngitis. He set the notebook down beside him and took small bites, able to tolerate the eggs and coffee, but not the bacon or toast. 

The coffee Mal brought when she collected the notebook was painful, too, but in a good sort of way. Arthur took it and his cigarettes out onto the balcony and smoked his way through half a pack because it made his throat feel better. 

He heard Eames poke his head out the door, and apologise, and say goodbye. He waved without turning around, and didn't see Eames again for another three years. 

-o0o- **Three Years Later** -o0o-

Mal was dead. 

She accused Cobb of killing her, and she was dead. 

Arthur knew it wasn't true, had seen her changing behaviour for himself, and knew how torn up Dom was over her loss. She'd left two kids behind as well as her husband. He sent a trusted man after Cobb with plane tickets and a note that he'd catch up, locked himself in his apartment, and proceeded to get fully, unconditionally drunk. 

When the knock on his door came at half-past midnight, he wasn't even aware of throwing the deadbolt open, just shoving the gun through the opening before he could even see who was there. The familiar, ragged face that greeted him stunned him into silence.

"Hello, darling," Eames said. And then, "Oh, Arthur. I'm so sorry." 

The next thing he knew the gun was gone, the door was locked, and Eames had wrapped him in a tight hug, holding on like he'd fall into limbo if he let go. Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames and sobbed into his shoulder. 

"How could she do it, Eames? How could she leave them?" 

"Shh, darling. I don't know. I wish I did." 

Somehow, they ended up in bed, Eames curled around Arthur like a human shield. They stayed like that for almost a full day, only getting up to use the bathroom, or in Eames' case, prepare food and bring it back to the bedroom. Arthur forced himself to eat only because he was half-afraid Eames would shove it down his throat if he didn't do it on his own. 

"So," Eames said, later on in the night. The sun was setting through the window, and Arthur lay on his side, watching it. He'd need to get up and move soon, pack everything and track Cobb down. If he was this bad off, Dom was probably a hundred times worse, and he had no one taking care of him like Arthur did. When Eames didn't continue, Arthur rolled over and looked at him.

"So?" he asked. His voice had deepened after the damage he'd done to it, but since he still looked like a kid - maybe closer to twenty than fifteen now, but still younger than his nearing-thirty age suggested - he was somewhat pleased by it. When he was tired or upset, it turned into a sort of sexy growl, and he'd gotten laid on the merits of his voice alone more times than he could count. 

"I wanted to... apologise, again," Eames said, toying with a folded up sheet of paper. Arthur lifted an eyebrow. "For what happened. I realise it was a long time ago, but." 

Arthur snatched the paper, noticed how soft it was, the creases starting to go fuzzy where it had been opened and refolded over and over again. He frowned when he recognised his own handwriting. It was his debrief, the night after they'd accidentally caught the serial killer and he couldn't talk. 

"You kept this," he said, and his voice choked up without his permission. It was such a ridiculous thing to get emotional about, but he'd never forgotten Eames. Every man he'd fucked or been fucked by, every time he heard a British lilt, random strangers in coffee shops and airports - they all wore Eames' face. It was patently ridiculous. 

"I was scared," Eames admitted. "That's why... I freaked out. What we'd seen in that man's mind, what he'd been planning to do to you - then I came up and he was - " he trailed off, unable to say it. Arthur nodded, the memory seared into his mind. "I overreacted, and I never really, _really_ apologised to you for it. I just left you." 

"And now you're back. When I needed you. I didn't even know I needed you, but there you were, both times." Arthur handed the note back, wanting nothing more to do with it, and then let his fingers rest against Eames' cheek. "I'm not sober now," he admitted. "I'm drunk off my ass." 

"Are you propositioning me?" 

"That depends," Arthur said, leaning in to kiss him. "Will you accept this time?" His voice was husky, but he couldn't have said whether it was the sudden _want_ welling up inside, the whisky, or the grief. 

"Will you forgive me if I do?"

Arthur pulled back as if he'd been burned. "Eames," he said, just starting to work himself into a rage. 

Eames understood immediately. "No, not for that, not three years ago. No, for _this,_ darling. I've wanted you practically from the moment I met you. If I give in now, are you going to leave tomorrow and never look back again?"

"You left me, the first time."

"You were furious and mute. It was my fault."

"I will have to leave. Dom needs me." Arthur leaned back in and kissed him again. "But I'll keep coming back for you, or you can come back for me. Let's not wait another three years, hm?" And then he was working his hand under the waistband of Eames' jeans, and Eames was arching up into his touch, and something in the back of his mind said, _Yes._

-o0o-

Six months later, they successfully incepted Robert Fischer, and Dom went home to his kids. Arthur took a week off, spent the entire time with Eames - mostly lounging around an apartment they decided to share while in LA - and then accepted a job in New York. 

He called Eames every day he was away, but into the second week, he had a bad feeling. When he dialed Eames that night, it was the first thing out of his mouth.

"I think I'm being followed," he said, without even bothering with 'hello and how are you?' 

Eames went silent, then tentatively asked, "Are you sure?" 

"I'm absolutely positive," Arthur said. "I can't pin it down to anything specific, though. Are you still in LA?"

"Darling, I'm shocked at you. I had lunch with Cobb two hours ago, he can vouch for my continued presence on the west coast. And besides, you think that if I'd flown out to New York to see you, I'd content myself with just following you?" 

Arthur sighed. It made too much damn sense. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'm just tense. Nothing about this job is making me feel easy, and then on top of it, being chased around New York by some ghost..."

"I understand," Eames said, and then swore. "Hang on, I've got another call. What? It's Cobb. Why would Cobb call me and not you?" 

"Take it," Arthur said. "It might be important." 

He waited, listening to the silence on the other line while Eames spoke with Cobb. He didn't even catch the click of the line opening back up, and Eames startled him by coming back on with panic lacing his voice.

"What the fuck," he swore. "Arthur, listen. I think you'd better leave that job and get back out here," he said. 

"What? Why?" 

"Gregorio Felicci. Remember him?"

Arthur's heart hit his shoes. "What about him?" 

"He paid his way out of jail. He's running loose somewhere in New York. That might be your mystery stalker. Look, I'd feel better if you'd just -"

And that was all Arthur heard, because suddenly the phone was ripped away from his ear and a gruff, uncannily familiar voice was at his ear. 

"Hello, Graham."


End file.
